“The truth,” said Bronson sententiously, “will always be welcome in the Courier columns. But our regular staff will continue to write the editorials.”

Rourke lit his sorry cigarette and said flatly, “All right. Your regular staff will continue to write the editorials. I’ll continue to write the truth.” He turned and put his hand on the doorknob.

“Hold it, Rourke.” Bronson didn’t raise his voice but it was heavy with jarring impact. “You insulted Painter in his office this morning.”

Rourke’s eyes glinted. “That’s page-one news. I didn’t know Painter could be insulted. God knows I’ve tried often enough.”

Bronson jabbed a drooling cigar toward Rourke. “You’ve also insulted a lot of other people in the entire greater Miami area with your inflammatory stories about a crime wave; your unjustified statements that Miami is becoming a mecca for hoodlums and gangsters; your thinly veiled implications that graft and corruption are rampant in the Beach police department; your insinuations concerning the activities of a shady gambling syndicate.”

“I suppose the Chamber of Commerce doesn’t like it.” Rourke glowered at his cigarette. It had gone out. He flung it in a wastebasket.

“Precisely,” Bronson went on. “Also the Civic Betterment League and the Ministerial Association. Protests have been pouring in, Rourke, from right-thinking citizens on all sides. The wire services are picking up your stories and featuring them throughout the country. You’re giving Miami a black name just when it’s very important that we have a good press throughout the nation. Our civic leaders envision an unparalleled opportunity for Miami to build and grow as never before. A resurgence of the ’twenty-six boom, perhaps. People won’t come here if they get the impression they’re likely to be murdered while walking our streets.”

“They are.”